


To Preen

by ForgottenChesire



Series: Christmas Presents 2016 [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, People with animal features, Winglock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-09-21 00:41:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9523721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForgottenChesire/pseuds/ForgottenChesire
Summary: John hates his wings. Sherlock finds them fascinating. It takes a preening session for John to think maybe they aren't so bad.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Late Christmas present is late! I am so sorry for the lateness. I hope you enjoy it!

The long days chasing after Sherlock as the man follows leads is an invigorating but messy task. Often ending with John’s wings needing a thorough preen. Which is the very reason why John is in the situation he is in now, torn between leaning into the thin fingers combing through his grimy feathers and leaning away from Sherlock. It's not that he doesn't trust Sherlock near his wings, he just doesn't like his wings period. They aren't anything that John would consider worthy of praise in the least. Unfortunately or maybe fortunately for John, there is a little-known fact that while it is easy to forget when you look at Sherlock, with his tallness and aloofness and often flicking tail who seems above everyone else, he is in fact as human as John is. For the consulting detective had taken one look at his blogger struggling to preen his wings; small, useless, evil things that they are, and had taken over grooming them.

 

“It is absolutely fascinating,” Sherlock mutters, his long fingers correcting stray feathers, pulling out sweat dried clumps, and generally cleaning them. It's been thirty minutes a new record on how long Sherlock will stay quiet when it comes to John’s wings.

 

“What is?” John manages to ask before melting completely into the taller man’s touch. He is unknowingly making soft chirping sounds that has Sherlock feeling proud, as there are joints in his wings that he hadn't even know were sore until they weren't. Maybe he should have let Sherlock do this sooner.

 

“Scientists say that while what appendages we get are largely based on familial genetics, they also tend to predict something about the temperament or personality of the person,” Sherlock breathes out working on a particularly stubborn knot.

 

Talking seems like too much effort but John tries to ask what his wings say about him, knowing that is what Sherlock wants. Thankfully the other understands his garbled mess of an attempt.

 

“Bushtits, which I believe your wings come from,” Sherlock says his fingers running from the base of John’s wings to the tip, “are a very social breed of bird. They often mix flocks with other small birds. Mainly songbirds.”

 

“Sooo, I’m social because of my wings?” There is a slight slur to John’s words that they both ignore. Sherlock huffs, tugging harder than he probably should at a dirt clump.

 

“Not exactly, but it is  _ one _ explanation for your overly personable behavior. It does, though, explain your difficulty flying.”

 

John flinches, his wings flittering out of Sherlock's hold as he leans away from the comfort and closeness. His lack of flight being a sore subject and they both know it. Sherlock’s hands follow his wings, tugging the blogger back to him.

 

“None of that now,” Sherlock chides “I was merely stating that Bushtits are not the best fliers. I believe one bird book stated that they weakly flew about. The fact that your wings are capable of holding you while you jump, catching enough wind so that you can glide, it is amazing.”

 

The complement, almost out of character for Sherlock and normally a reason why he pulls away, relaxes John and he leans back into the touch. Sherlock lets out a purr, his tail coming to rest on John’s lap. 

 

“What about you?” the blogger asks after a bit.

 

“Hmm?”

 

“What does your tail tell the world about you? Does it explain why you don't land on your feet?” John teases.

 

“I don't always land on my feet, my dear Watson, because I am not  _ actually  _ a cat.”

 

They lapse into silence for a bit, John running his fingers through the thick brown fur on Sherlock's tail, returning the favour of preening Sherlock as the man grooms him. He  _ may _ love the cat like appendages that his lover has a bit too much. The tail in particular as petting or brushing it calms him down immensely.

 

“Maine Coons, according to a large number of breeders, are extremely social creatures. So my tail gives a false impression that I  _ like _ people,” John can practically hear Sherlock's nose crinkle at that statement, “They are a large and intelligent breed as well.”

 

John raises the tip of Sherlock's tail to his lips and presses a kiss to it.   
  
"Well, you are very tall."   
  
"Cheeky."

 

Nothing is said after that, nothing needs to be. Soon the preening comes to an end and they trail into the bedroom. Sherlock takes great pleasure in taking off John’s shirt and feeling up the sandy brown and grey feathers. And John enjoys slipping Sherlock's pants off of the taller male, his hand soothing the fluffy tail down. They end up on the bed; Sherlock on his back his fingers buried in soft feathers and helping keep John steady while the blond pants and makes sure to pay attention to the velvety ears on top of Sherlock's head as he rides Sherlock. The words most people feel compelled to speak in the throes of passion are communicated through gentle touches, soft sighs of content and adoring looks. It is their way, never really vocalizing what they know when it comes to this feeling. Love, John loves Sherlock completely and Sherlock loves him.

 

Later that night as he drifts off to sleep; on his stomach, wings lax and spread out as far as they can go, near on top of Sherlock, John wonders if maybe the dislike he feels will go away much like the limp he once had. He lets out a sleepy chirrup, nuzzling his lover and allows his mind to empty out into blissful sleep. So long as he has Sherlock, he sure that anything is possible. Sherlock combs his fingers through John’s hair, mind going over many a scenario, most of them the ‘game’ he has found himself trapped in with Moriarty a fellow cat- Siamese, social, intelligent and prone to enjoying games of fetch- and the danger it puts his bird in. It's with troubling thoughts that Sherlock falls asleep, but the consulting detective is sure that he can win any game.


End file.
